He forced his mind away from that night. Far easier to picture Cammi, smiling, laughing, gesturing with dainty hands. Once she’d locked onto him with those mesmerizing eyes of hers, he’d been a goner. She’d looked so familiar that he’d thought at first he’d met her somewhere before. But Reid quickly dismissed the idea, because he’d never seen bigger, browner eyes. If he met a girl who looked like that, it wasn’t likely he’d forget!
Reid sensed Cammi was nothing like the women who’d dogged his heels from rodeo town to rodeo town. How he could be so sure of that after spending forty-five minutes in her presence, Reid didn’t know. Still, it was a good thing, in and of itself, because it had been a long time since he’d felt anything but guilt.
Guilt at being born out of wedlock. Guilt that taking care of him had made life a constant struggle for his mother. Guilt that though he’d turned himself inside-out to please his parade of stepdads, he’d never measured up. Guilt that, while rodeoing was by its nature a business for the wreckless, his devil-may-care attitude had cost him his career. And the biggest, naggin’est guilt of all…that one rainy night a decade and a half ago, he’d been behind the wheel of the pickup that killed a young wife and mother.
He tossed the covers aside, threw his legs over the edge of the bed and leaned forward, elbows balanced on knees. Head down, he closed his eyes. When he opened them, Reid stared through the French doors, deep into the quiet night. Self-pity, he believed, was one of the ugliest of human emotions. He had no business feeling sorry for himself; he’d been given a lot more than some he could name. He had his health back, for starters, a good home and a steady job, thanks to Martina and Billy. If not for this confounded disease of Billy’s, he’d have the pair of them, too, for decades to come.
He’d taught himself to dwell on the positives at times like this, to get a handle on his feelings—remorse, shame, regret, whatever—because to do otherwise was like a slow, painful death. Billy and Martina needed him, and he owed it to them to get a grip.
A well-worn Bible sat on the top shelf of the bookcase across the room. Martina had put it there, years ago, when he’d come back to Amarillo for his mother’s funeral. “Whether you realize it or not,” she’d said, “Boots did you a favor, beating you until you’d memorized it, cover to cover.”
“How do you figure that?” he’d griped.
She had smiled, hands folded over her flowered apron. “Anything you need is in those pages. That’s why folks call it ‘The Good Book’!”
She’d been so sure of herself that Reid had almost been tempted to believe her. But blind faith had been the reason his mother had married badly…five times. If she hadn’t taught him anything else, she’d shown him by example what a mind-set like that could cost a person!
Three or four steps, and he’d have Martina’s Good Book in his hands. Two or three minutes, thanks to Boots’s cruel and relentless lessons, and he’d locate a verse that promised solace, peace, forgiveness. A grating chuckle escaped him. Just ’cause it’s in there don’t make it so, he thought bitterly.
In all his life, he’d known just two people who were as good as their word, and both of them were fast asleep down the hall. He loved Billy and Martina more than if they’d been his flesh-and-bone parents, because they’d chosen to take a confused, resentful boy into their home and love him, guide him, nurture him as if he were their own. Though he’d given them plenty of reason to, they’d never thrown up their hands in exasperation.
And he wouldn’t give up on them now.
Suddenly, he felt a flicker of hope. Again, Reid considered crossing the room, taking the Bible from its shelf. Maybe Martina had a point. She and Billy had made God the center of their lives for decades, and they seemed happier, more content—despite Billy’s terminal illness—than anyone he’d ever known. Maybe he should at least give her advice a try.
He stood in front of the bookcase and slid the Bible halfway out from where it stood among paperback novels, Billy’s comics collection and Martina’s photo albums. A moment, then two, ticked silently by….
“Nah,” Reid grumbled, shoving the book back into place. He remembered, as he slid between the bedcovers, how often he’d overheard Martina’s heartfelt prayers for Billy’s healing.
But the healing never came. Instead, Billy’s condition worsened, almost by the hour. If God could turn a deaf ear to Martina, who believed with a heart as big as her head, why would He listen to a no-account like Reid!
Staring up at the ceiling again, he shook his head. There was no denying that Martina believed God had been the glue that held the decades-long marriage together. Once, during a visit to the Rockin’ C a few years back, Reid had encountered a deep-in-prayer Martina in the living room. Glowing like a schoolgirl, she’d sung the Almighty’s praises. “You talk as if He hung the moon,” Reid had said, incredulous. She’d affectionately cuffed the back of his head. “He did, you silly goose!”
Something otherworldly was certainly responsible for their contentment and happiness. Scalp still tingling from Martina’s smack, Reid had wondered if he’d live long enough to find a love like that.
“You’re only twenty-seven, son. Give the Father time to lead you to the one He intends you to share your life with.” As Reid opened his mouth to object, she’d added, “Think about it, you stubborn boy! If He could hang the moon, surely He can help you find your soul mate!”
Soul mate, Reid thought now. Did such a thing even exist anywhere other than in romance novels?
Romance. The word made him think of Cammi. Pretty, petite, sweet as cotton candy. When his gaze was drawn again to the gilded script on the Bible’s spine, he stubbornly turned away, closed his eyes.
As he drifted off to sleep, it was Cammi’s smiling face he focused on.
A few hours earlier…
“Wow, lady,” the cabbie said. “This is some place you’ve got here.”
“Isn’t mine,” Cammi corrected. “River Valley is my dad’s.”
He nodded. “Still, mighty impressive all the same.”
She couldn’t deny it. Anyone who’d ever seen the ranch had been impressed, if not by the three-story stone house, then by the two-lane wooden bridge leading to the circular drive, or the waterfall, hissing and gurgling beneath it. Everything had been the result of her father’s design…and his own hardworking hands.
The tall double doors swung wide even before Cammi stepped out of the cab. Bright golden light spilled from the enormous foyer, painting the wraparound porch and curved flagstone walkway with a butter-yellow glow and casting her father’s burly form in silhouette. A booming “Camelia, you’re home!” floated to her on the damp Texas breeze. Then, his deep voice suddenly laced with concern, Lamont added, “What’s with the taxi? Did you have car trouble?”
Cammi grinned at the understatement. “You could say that.”
“You should’ve called,” he said. “I’d have come for you.”
Could have, should have, would have. How many times had she heard that before leaving home?
Lamont held out his arms and Cammi melted into them. Plenty of time to tell him about the accident—and everything else—later. For the moment, wrapped in the warmth of his embrace, she put aside the reasons she’d left home. Forgot his “you’ll be sorry” speech. Forgot how determined she’d been to prove him wrong, for no reason other than that for once in her life, she’d wanted to make him proud.
Proud? So much for that! Cammi thought.
“Good to have you home, sweetie.”
My, but that sounded good. Sounded right. This was where she wanted…no, where she needed to be. And if the length or strength of Lamont’s embrace was